


Safe Haven

by ParadiseBird



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Blood, Hurt Frank Castle, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Night Stands, Trauma, guardian angel Diarmuid, twinks and bears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24681385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadiseBird/pseuds/ParadiseBird
Summary: “It’s Frank.”“Huh?” The boy said.“My name is Frank,” said Frank.The boy’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure you told me Pete.”Frank observed him. His expressive eyes looked watery, his pink lips still pinched. It almost looked like he was hurt.“You remember that, do you?” Frank asked quietly.Punisher AU - you don't need to have seen Daredevil/Punisher to understand it.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/Frank Castle
Comments: 9
Kudos: 27





	Safe Haven

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't seen Daredevil or Punisher, all you need to know is that Frank Castle, played by the sexy beast who is Jon Bernthal, is a scary ex-marine vigilante who kills the bad guys.

Frank retreated to the building by the river just on the off chance that the boy still lived there. He dragged himself along the street, his hooded head bowed so his face was a shadow. He passed few people at this time of night, and the area was rough enough that they only crossed the road when they encountered a stumbling, grunting stranger who was leaving a trail of dark red drops behind him on the sidewalk. Reaching the building, he pushed buzzers until someone let him in, and pulled himself up the stairs to the sixth floor with the last, shredded scraps of his will. Number 47 was the same dirty, chipped door he remembered from last time when he’d been following the boy, not touching until that door had closed behind them.

Frank thumped on the door, and heard nothing for a long while. He got the feeling he was being watched, and he raised his head to send a piercing look at the peephole. _Let me in, take your thumb out_ , he wanted to growl, but maybe it wasn’t the boy on the other side, maybe someone else lived here now; or maybe he just didn’t want a dirty, blood-spattered thug who he only vaguely knew inside his little apartment, and fair play to him. Last time Frank had been here, he had been here for one thing, and he couldn’t remember if he’d conducted himself like a gentleman.

But the door did open at last. A nervous little face appeared, looking up at him behind the chain which was strung taut between them.

“Hey. Kid.” He murmured. He pushed in closer to the door, placing a boot just over the threshold. The boy might not let him in, but at least he wouldn’t be able to close the door fully now. Frank didn’t want to scare the boy, or push his agenda on him, it was just that he had no other god damn options.

The boy looked terrified; his breaths quick. He looked Frank up and down repeatedly, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Frank couldn’t hold in a wheeze as a crest of pain tore up his torso from the wound in his side.

“What’re you doing here?” The boy asked tremulously.

“Didn’t have nowhere else to go. I’m not exactly a local to this city,” Frank managed to grit out, trying to keep his tone as non-threatening as possible. He could feel his blood slipping through his fingers, and the floor tilted to and fro. He leaned heavily against the door frame. “Hate to do this to you, kiddo. You’re basically my only contact here.”

“Um,” the boy said. “Um. Ok. I’m going to let you in. Stand back.”

Frank sent a quick thank you upstairs that the boy was the kind of good samaritan who was a danger to himself. Today, thankfully, that character trait might just save Frank’s life.

Frank went tumbling into the apartment as soon as the door swung open, practically on top of the boy, and strong, slender arms immediately braced to support him.

“Whoa - ok, ok,” the kid said, and walked with him over to the couch. Last time, they’d kissed on this couch for about a minute before Frank had got his hands under slim thighs and stood up, walked over to the door that Frank was staring at, slumped into the couch cushions as he was now - behind that door he’d laid down on top of the kid on the bed that had squeaked and protested at every enthusiastic move they’d made.

This couch was going to be soaked in blood by the end of the night.

The kid came back from closing and locking the front door, and looked at him with his mouth agog for another moment before shaking himself and rushing off. Frank heard him banging around in the little kitchenette over his shoulder, turning the tap on, boiling the kettle.

Frank went to work himself. He put the pain into a corner for a little longer as he stripped his layers off. A glut of blood gushed out with the unavoidable stretch of his side, but Frank clenched his teeth through it and looked dispassionately at the torn edges of his skin. He’d need stitches.

The boy came back, a bucket of steaming water in his hands and towels slung over his arm. He looked frantic and swore quietly when he saw the wound and Frank’s black-and-blue torso.

“Thanks,” Frank grunted.

“I - I think you should go to a hospital.”

“You got a sewing kit, something like that?”

“Are you serious?” The boy gaped. “Yeah, I have, I think. I’ve got a first aid kit too.” He scurried off towards the bedroom, leaving the door open as he went through to the bathroom.

This unusual streak of luck was holding. Not only was the boy jumping to help him instead of asking questions, but he must be one of five kids in this city to actually own a sewing kit. 

The kid came back and spread everything out with shaking hands. He stayed close, crouched on his knees, passing the disinfectant and the scissors and the bandages when Frank said to. With his right side injured, he would have had to have found some way to do it all one-handed, if not for the boy acting as a nurse.

When Frank had finished the operation and collapsed back into the soiled cushions of the couch, he allowed himself a few moments of relief before opening his eyes and acknowledging the boy’s hovering presence in front of him. He looked shaken and confused, a tumble of unrolled bandages in one hand.

Frank sighed.

“I’m sorry about your couch.”

The boy looked, frowning as if noticing the ruination for the first time.

“I appreciate this,” Frank continued, as the boy seemed to have gone mute. “You took a leap of faith and helped me out. You gotta promise me not to do that every time some crazy bastard comes knocking on your door.”

The boy shook his head, expelling a little huff of air. “I wouldn’t have opened that door to just anyone. I’m not an idiot.” He eyed Frank, who was slowly letting unconsciousness claim him. “You can stay here tonight.”

“Thanks,” said Frank, who couldn’t have been dragged out of this spot by wild horses.

At some point, without further warning, the blankness descended. Something woke him pretty quickly. A chill nudge. A glass of water floated in front of his face, and at once a fierce need rose up in him. He took it and downed it, gasping and letting it spill down his torso. The guardian angel who had delivered it waited for the empty glass.

“I’ll get you another one.”

After that glass, the blackness came again. Through the depth of exhausted sleep, there came the ghostly sensation of gentle touches against the sensitive bruises that littered his forearms, face and torso. Maria’s sweet smile came to mind, the perfect form that had crystallised in his memory.

“Shh, I’m sorry. It’ll be over soon,” said a voice. The voice was wrong for Maria, and the spectre of her swam and morphed. Waves of brunette hair shrank into wayward curls, her forgiving eyes turned into the wide, concerned eyes of the boy, whose ivory skin replaced her olive complexion. The touch remained as tender as it had always been, and Frank let himself slip away again.

***

Everything ached. A stake through every limb, pinning him to the sunken cushions of the couch; the presence of the wound in his side that would spike with agony if he tried to move. Before he was fully conscious, Frank knew he’d taken a serious beating.

“Kid,” Frank said, moving his diaphragm as little as possible. The apartment was silent, just the thrum of the refrigerator and the drone of cars, people shouting to each other in the streets below. “Kid,” he tried again, wincing when he increased his volume. Thankfully, a squeal of bed springs from the open bedroom door told Frank that he had not been abandoned.

The boy came out, rubbing his eyes, his hair in even more of a disarray than yesterday.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” Frank murmured, “But you got any painkillers?”

“That’s ok,” he said. “Yeah, I’ve got some; just ibuprofen though, nothing strong.”

It wouldn’t be enough to get Frank moving again, get him out of this kid’s hair.

“Ok. that’ll do for a start. I need something stronger though; think you can get hold of something else?”

The boy thought for a moment. “I think Gene upstairs deals stuff like that.”

“You trust him?” Frank didn’t want to send this kid to get his ass kicked for looking like a little narc.

“Um, I guess. I’ve walked his dog for him sometimes, he’s got a bad leg.”

“So you know him. That’s perfect. There’s some money in my wallet.” Frank pointed at his jeans pocket, even that movement sending agony through his torso.

The kid handed over the ibuprofen before changing and heading out, casting a worried look at the man beached on his couch before he left the apartment.

Frank didn’t know how this little angel kept himself safe and clean in a place like this. He practically had a target on his curly head, even without his willingness to take people like Frank home from a grimy bar. Trauma didn’t always write itself loud and proud on every person who experienced it, but anyone who’d been bitten once would have to be stupid to open the door to Frank last night. And the boy wasn’t stupid.

Perhaps there was some charm of protection over this place, keeping the boy safe; the same charm that had put the memory of the boy in his head last night, guided the way through the unfamiliar streets to his door, served him up a nursemaid and a safe haven to recover in all in one go. There was nothing that Frank could think of to connect him with the boy, apart from whoever had seen him stagger past last night, or whoever had been sober enough at that bar a year ago to see them moving progressively closer as the night wore on, then leave together. He was as safe as he could be, after what had gone down.

In no time, the boy was back. He looked a little nervous and flustered.

“Baby’s first drug deal?” Frank slurred.

The boy’s mouth tightened disapprovingly, but he reached a hand into his pocket and pulled out a little box, shaking it.

“I’m’a need a little help sitting up,” Frank said. The boy came over and together they maneuvered him up into a sitting position. Frank couldn’t help the noise that left him as his insides seemed to grate against each other.

The boy had managed to procure a good quantity of Demerol. He went and fetched a whole jug of water and a glass without having to be asked.

“You’re an angel,” Frank told him, after he’d swallowed some tablets. He let his head loll onto the back of the couch.

The boy scoffed. “Do you even remember my name, Pete?”

Frank knew he hadn’t kept that in his memory banks, so he hadn’t even tried to remember. Remembered the apartment, and that was what counted. The boy surely couldn’t be offended that a one-night hook up from a year ago hadn’t remembered his name, no matter that he’d somehow remembered the name Frank had told him.

“It’s Frank.”

“Huh?” The boy said.

“My name is Frank,” said Frank.

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure you told me Pete.”

Frank observed him. His expressive eyes looked watery, his pink lips still pinched. It almost looked like he was hurt.

“You remember that, do you?” Frank asked quietly. The boy looked down. “Yeah, ok, I’m sorry. I gave you a fake name, but I think I can trust you now so I’m telling you the real one. And yeah, I don’t remember your name.”

“Diarmuid,” he said.

“Oh, yeah. See, that’s an exotic name that’s not easy to remember,” Frank said. It didn’t even ring a bell. The whole intent of that night had been a fling; not the sort of thing where you’d have to call a partner anything but ‘darling’ and ‘sweetheart’ and ‘angel’.

Diarmuid crossed his arms. The anger had gone from him; now he just looked tired and miserable.

“You gave me a fake number.”

“I gave you a number?” Frank said. Now that was surprising. Now that he recalled, he thought he’d be in the city for a few weeks at least, but as it turned out, as it often did, trouble had found him quickly and he’d had to move on, escape the trail of dead bodies. It was possible that he’d given Diarmuid his number in hopes of another hook up. 

The memory of that night was rebuilding itself now. The pale, soft face had called out to him from the dim light of the bar. Diarmuid had been with some older friends from work who were getting shitfaced and ignoring their sober little coworker. Unlike most kids in this city, he wasn’t trying to look tough. His hair was long like a Califorian hipster, his eyes wide open and looking about guilelessly into the dark corners, blinking in incomprehension at the shady deals that were going on right under his gaze. He’d attracted some attention, that was for sure - some mean bastards who looked like they might want to put a fist in his angel face as soon as he left the premises. When he’d sucked the last dregs of his lime soda up the straw and headed to the bar, Frank had sidled in, his protective instincts flaring. He had a parental streak, he was aware; but when Diarmuid’s eyes had met his, he’d felt anything but parental. His introduction had frozen in his throat; he’d had to cough inelegantly before he could get the machinery back into gear.

Whatever Frank had felt, Diarmuid must also have been subject to some attraction from the get-go, because it had been no trouble to keep his attention. He’d been stiff and shy at first, but armed with enough steely comebacks to keep Frank on his toes. Frank’s objective had quickly changed from ‘shelter and protect’ to ‘charm and seduce’. They’d talked for ages, Diarmuid’s useless friends not noticing what had become of the youngest member of their party. Frank had felt smiles coming easily to his face, something he’d thought impossible. Diarmuid had been the one to say he was going to take a taxi back to his apartment. A small pause, and then, “Do you want to come back to mine?” Frank had pushed his beer away and slid off his bar stool without another word, and Diarmuid had been unable to suppress a wide, devilish grin.

The sex had been … it had been fantastic, now that it came back to Frank. Why was it that the good memories fled him or melted into lifeless facsimiles of what had been, when the bad ones seemed to be lasered onto the meat of his brain, colour-perfect playbacks of blood splatters and deranged laughter available at the nudge of a button.

Frank was not a connoisseur of male pleasure, but he knew and had partaken of the basics. He and Diarmuid had kept it simple, just hands and mouths that night; then in the morning, after Frank had allowed himself to fall asleep in that rickety bed, he’d woken to the sight of Diarmuid stretching himself open, a rubber and lube ready for when Frank opened his eyes. Diarmuid had got him hard with no trouble, and swung his flexible form over the top of Frank’s lap. Frank remembered the diamond-hard intent in Diarmuid’s eyes as he’d worked himself down until he could fit all of Frank, and they’d moved together in a beautiful harmony, a controlled rocking that had taken on a life of its own, waves of pleasure that had pushed moans from both of them. Frank was usually a gentle lover, but although they’d been slow there had been a primal quality to that time with Diarmuid. Diarmuid was strong, he’d ridden those relentless, deep thrusts so well, sacrificed himself onto Frank’s length over and over while Frank had thrust up without mercy. It had been lust in its purest form, undiluted by love. They’d fucked. Frank remembered thinking that he’d like to do it again. He’d put his number into Diarmuid’s phone himself. They’d had coffee, they’d talked. It had been easy. There had been a soft post-coital glow around Diarmuid that had made it a wrench to leave him. Frank had even drawn the sleepy kid in for a long goodbye kiss before he’d departed, feeling like he was walking on air.

Then, not long after, had been the stand-off with the coke gang, then the shoot-out. The motorbike chase, the crash, the stolen car to the next city. At some point his phone had become collateral, and thoughts of Diarmuid had been boxed up and shelved along with all the other good things in life that Frank Castle would never get to keep.

“I gave you my number,” Frank said, and dragged a hand down his face. “It was my real number, I promise, kid - Diarmuid,” he quickly corrected himself. “As you can see I tend to attract trouble and I must’a lost the phone. I’m sorry. I’m a piece of shit: You knew it and you still helped me, so. I guess you really are an angel.”

He felt the couch dip beside him. Diarmuid was watching him, his posture subdued.

“It’s good to know, I guess,” He said quietly. “I was wondering about you. You know? I had a great night and I really thought you’d want to hear from me. Then I thought I must be an idiot for not realising that you weren’t interested. I’m not the best at reading people.”

Diarmuid was sitting on Frank’s right side, the injured side, so Frank knew it would hurt, but he lifted a hand and rubbed Diarmuid’s side anyway.

“You read me right,” Frank murmured. “We did have a good night. If things would’ve turned out different we would’ve been hooking up every night for a month.”

That seemed to amuse Diarmuid, though it looked a little wry. “Just a month?”

Frank realised how callous he must sound to someone who was still sore a year on from a hook-up. The memory of Diarmuid’s keen, undulating body on top of him had been the shorthand of that night for Frank; the sincere innocent he’d come upon at the bar had been buried, too pure and good to exist next to the horrors that Frank’s mind stored. Now he was allowing himself to remember the richness of the experience and the many facets of the boy in the encounter, Frank could believe he’d caused pain. A more mundane pain than usual, but somehow it felt like more of a mark against Frank than the physical atrocities he’d inflicted upon people. It marked him in the place under all his barricades and walls, where he was still soft and human and told himself he was good.

If not for the inevitable pattern of Frank’s life, could they have had something more than sex?

“Impossible to say,” Frank said, letting a sigh escape him. How kind his mind was, to hide from him the sweet possibilities of life that might be allowed to any other man but him. He made another effort and lifted his arm further to stroke the soft skin of Diarmuid’s cheekbone. The drugs must be kicking in.

Diamuid trapped his hand there with his own, encouraging the affection despite how he’d been betrayed in the past.

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” he said.

“Hn. I brought it on myself.”

“Does this … does this happen to you often?”

Frank rubbed a thumb over the delicate skin under his eye. Kind eyes. Eyes that were wasted on him. There was no amount of kindness that could forgive the things Frank had done.

“Trouble finds me,” Frank admitted.

Diarmuid put his hand on Frank’s chest, gently. He caressed upwards, dragging over his t-shirt and finding the sensitive skin of Frank’s neck. He was close, moulded to his side. It felt good to have his care. Frank let himself take it. For someone who didn’t have a single thing to his name, it was ironic how he had a habit of taking. And what did he have to give? The boy was searching for something from him, calling out for some response that Frank didn’t know if he had in him. All he could do was wind an arm around Diarmuid and tuck him closer against his body, half-numb with drugs, let the boy’s lips find his, let Diarmuid find what succor he could take from Frank. It was the least he could do.

***

Diarmuid made a phone call, told a woman that he would be taking a sick day. He should have told Frank first, because then Frank could have told him to save it. The drugs were strong and they were working: he could hardly feel his body. He was getting out of here and Diarmuid could get on with his life.

He checked his pockets, examined the blood stains and tears in his jacket. He’d look a mess, especially in the light of day.

Diarmuid finished his call quickly, watching Frank with concern.

“What are you doing? You shouldn’t be moving,” he said, throwing his phone aside.

“Have you got a sweater or something I could have?”

“Maybe, I don’t know if I’ve got something that could fit you, I’ll have a look. But you should keep still. It can’t be good for you to be moving around right now. Do you want to lie in my bed?”

Frank smiled, shook his head. “I just need the sweater. I can’t stay here, you understand that? You need for me to be gone by the time people start asking questions around here. I’m putting you in danger and I can’t let that happen. Shit, I’ve already put you in danger; best you can do is kick me out while the people who are looking for me haven’t caught a scent yet.”

Diarmuid’s lip trembled. “You’re still injured. How are you going to defend yourself against them?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve been through stuff like this before, and worse. You’ve seen the scars.”

Diarmuid swallowed, ducking his head, hiding his eyes behind brown curls. He took a moment, just standing there looking unbalanced and on the verge of arguing, but eventually he just turned and went to his bedroom.

Frank balled his jacket up; he’d dispose of it somewhere away from here. He felt stiff. He’d be moving slowly unless that red mist descended and he needed to fight. He’d find the energy then, somehow. There were always reserves somewhere that even Frank couldn’t explain.

Diarmuid came out with a light grey GAP sweater. If Frank started bleeding again it would show at once, but it would have to do and Frank was grateful.

“It’s the biggest one I have,” Diarmuid said.

“Thanks,” Frank said. He put it on. It was too tight over the other layers, probably looked odd if anyone cared to look twice.

Diarmuid was just standing there, looking at him gravely.

“I hope you get out of here,” he said. “I hope they don’t find you.”

Frank nodded. “Me too.”

They walked to the front door, Diarmuid trailing. Frank couldn’t help turning, taking in his angel one last time. Couldn’t help touching him again, pulling him gently close and resting his cheek against his soft hair.

“Call me when you’re safe,” Diarmuid said into his chest. “Please.”

“What’s your number?”

Diarmuid reached into the pocket of the grey sweater Frank wore and pulled out a scrap of paper, showing Frank there was a number written on it, before tucking it back inside.

“Alright,” Frank said, smiling a crooked smile. “You’ll know if you hear from me then, I guess.”

Another moment later and the soft embrace was behind him, the door closing him off from the haven of Diarmuid’s kind touches. 

Then there was just the dingy corridor, the buzzing light, the grime of a shared apartment block that nobody cleaned. Frank put the hood up and watched the ground as he descended the stairs and left the building. He needed to get far away from Diarmuid before he was recognised, and that was all the miracle he needed today. If the charm on this place would just work a little longer.

**Author's Note:**

> I really appreciate any and all feedback <3 I'm guessing this has very niche appeal so if there's anyone else out there who is tickled by this pairing holla at me!


End file.
